When I lived in the Marina neighborhood of San Francisco, I could walk to endless bars and restaurants within 10 minutes. It was the perfect place for twenty- and thirty-somethings to live, socialize, and indulge in city life.

Back in 2005, at age 28, I had just bought my first single-family home—a handsome three-bedroom house built in 1924. It had charm, but it also needed work. I poured my heart into remodeling, adding a second full bathroom and upgrading an old half-bath. At the time, I loved the process. Now, as someone in his mid-40s, I dread the thought of remodeling ever again.

Wanting to beautify my home’s exterior, I placed two large clay planters with flowers outside my front gate. It felt like a small way to make my block a little nicer. But just a month later, at 1 a.m., I was jolted awake by a loud crash.

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